Of Solace and Sacrifice
by Esbeth
Summary: Cousland/Duncan. Treacherous fires burn down the remnants of a former life, as a resentful Avelle Cousland is unwillingly led towards a new and uncertain future by Duncan of the Grey Wardens.
1. Chapter 1

**[NEW!] Author****'****s**** Notes**: Hello all! It's been some time since I've updated this fic. I'm _so_ sorry for the wait! Believe me when I say I'm still devoted to finishing this story! I heart Duncan, and I'm thrilled to see that there's so many more stories of him now!

Ahh, Duncan...you swarthy, commander rogue you~ X)

That said, I've re-written almost all of the chapters in some manner to fix grammatical errors and weird tenses, and just to add more to the scenes (thanks to those whom kindly critiqued my work). Hopefully this revision will make reading the story all the more enjoyable.

I'd love to hear your feedback and reviews on the story, so don't be shy!

Without further adieu~

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**Of**** Solace**** and**** Sacrifice**

The sound of an arrow whistled cleanly through the crisp, Ferelden air before a distinct wood-braced _thud_ hailed its impact upon an aging, weather-worn target dummy in the castle courtyard.

In the distance, a shout of jubilation from a young woman, echoed across the yard. The leather-clad archer let out a laugh as she approached the practice dummy, moving to stand next to her astonished companion. She smiled as she openly appraised her handiwork.

The arrow was lodged firmly between the dummy's eyes, or rather, what _would_ have been eyes were there such indications on the pock-marked target.

She inclined her head towards the arrow and grinned cheekily, "Well now! I would call that a bulls-eye, wouldn't you agree Ser Gilmore?"

The flabbergasted knight stared at the lodged arrow with amazement. He hadn't expected her to hit the target at all, let alone hit it _perfectly_. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as a tinge of regret laced his voice, "It would seem so, Lady Cousland."

"..._and_?" The young woman prompted him with a sly grin.

Ser Gilmore returned an amused smile as he glanced once more at the target dummy.

It truly _was_ a bulls-eye from well over one hundred and fifty paces. Such accuracy at so great a distance was unheard of.

The knight released a breathy laugh, born out of astonishment. With a smile, he pivoted towards Lady Cousland, and in a courtly bow placed a bracing hand against his chest. "..._and_ you've won the bet."

Her brow arched in a playful look of satisfaction. "Well then Ser Knight...it would seem that you owe me fifty silvers, yes?"

Ser Gilmore spoke through a wide smile, as his arms tucked themselves across his chest.

"It would _seem_ you need a lesson in humility, milady. Perhaps you would care to join me for a quick bout in the melee?"

Her light copper-colored eyes considered him thoughtfully, as she propped her chin against a curled hand. "Now, now Ser Gilmore. Let a lady savor her victory for a moment before _wresting_ it away from her! I'm not quite ready to be embarrassed in the melee again so soon. I'll...ah, respectfully decline." she laughed.

The knight's eyes softened as he watched the young Cousland smile and return his gaze.

Avelle Cousland, second-born of the Cousland line, was quite simply...lovely. Her rich, brown hair fell below her shoulders, with a set of braids looped elegantly in a circlet across her crown. Her eyes were pools the color of summer wheat, with curves that could not be hidden under the weighted leather of sturdy, Ferelden armor.

Looking at her made him feel..._light_. He fought against the errant pull in his chest as it pounded nervously, heatedly, in place. Her playful gaze did more to unsteady him than he would ever care to admit.

He watched as a stray tendril of her hair came undone and billowed against her face.

He was completely lost in time, breathless in the gentile reverie.

"Ser Gilmore?"

The knight blinked, and his posture stiffened as he realized he was staring overlong.

He spoke quickly to hide his embarrassment, "Ah, my apologies! You know I only jest milady. I...ah...it's just such a shame for me to lose so decisively."

The knight looked at her for a heartbeat longer before pulling out a small purse of coins, extracting exactly fifty silvers. He moved towards her with coins firmly held between thumb and forefinger.

"Lady Avelle." He beckoned her to open her hand, to which she complied with an undeniably smug grin. "Congratulations on your well earned victory..." He leaned forward and added, "Mind you, I'll be winning this back soon."

With that, he promptly released the coins into her hand and stepped back.

"You are too kind Ser." Avelle provided a small curtsy and a gracious smile as she pocketed the winnings.

With a practiced ease, she planted the bottom end of her bow firmly into the ground, flexing the stave downward. "I'll have you know that this coin is going towards a very noble cause."

She sunk to one knee, as she worked to remove the string of her bow, releasing the tension off the stave.

"A noble cause you say?"

"Indeed! This will go towards a bet I have with Fergus. He claims that he can spit a chewed elfroot twenty-five feet on level ground, and I aim to prove him wrong."

Avelle shook her head with amusement at the thought of her brother sputtering in a cone of spit-laden green bits. She collected the coiled bowstring into a purse slung at her waist.

"A noble cause if I've ever heard one, Lady Cousland." Ser Gilmore replied.

Avelle grinned, "I thought you'd agree." She lifted herself off the ground and leaned back, with a hand placed against her stomach. "All this excitement has given me quite an appetite. I wonder if nan-"

"Your ladyship!"

A Cousland guard, dressed crisply in the white and blue tabard of Highever, quickly jogged towards them and stopped just short of the pair. He bowed apologetically. "Forgive the interruption your ladyship, but the teyrn has requested your presence in the main hall."

"The Arl has arrived?" Ser Gilmore questioned. "I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise, seeing how he is late by _well _over a fortnight."

Avelle slung her quiver across her shoulders. "Surprising...yet unsurprising." She commented idly. The young Cousland turned to the guard reluctantly. "Thank you for the message, tell my father I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, milady." The guard bowed once again before making a hastened march back to the castle.

Avelle quietly watched the figure of the retreating guard in the distance and sighed. "I hope that dreadful son of his isn't with him..."

Ser Gilmore's eyebrows lifted with amusement. "The lord Thomas does not please your ladyship?"

She soothingly rubbed a gloved hand against her temple. "He was half-drunk at the Denerim fair when we first met. It'd be a wonder if he even remembers who I am!"

Ser Gilmore looked at her with surprise, and spoke before thinking, "Lady Cousland, you don't do yourself a proper service. It would be hard to forget someone like you."

Avelle quirked her head to the side with a small, questioning smile. The faintest flush of color settled in her cheeks in a pleased blush.

Ser Gilmore was stricken with a quiet panic as he realized he had spoken out of turn. He amended quickly, "Ah, I-I mean your display at the marksman range at the fair had the crowd whipped into a frenzy. How could he have forgotten? Never a more skilled archer in all of Denerim for certain."

Avelle laughed. "You're overly kind Ser Gilmore," Her hand found its way to the knight's forearm, and she squeezed gently. "...as always."

Ser Gilmore was suddenly very conscious of the warmth of her hand, and the eyes that watched him.

His heartbeat quickened.

Her smile slowly faded, as she removed her hand, tucking it against her chest. Her eyes warily moved towards the direction of the castle. "I suppose I should make my way to the hall. I wouldn't want to give my mother _another_ reason to flay me for poor manners."

Ser Gilmore struggled for words, still caught in the heat of that innocent touch. He hoped that their earlier exchange meant _something_. _Anything_.

He wished to ask, but his courage faltered. He nodded and fell into the same, tired pattern of knightly civility. He bowed formally and spoke, "Good luck then, milady."

The young Cousland smiled. "Many thanks." She tucked the ironwood bow beneath her arm and chuckled. " I shall need it if Thomas is there!"

With that, Avelle waved in farewell, taking reluctant steps towards the castle.

Ser Gilmore watched her retreating form, as a quiet sigh escaped his lips.

Unbeknown to the young Cousland, another, darker pair of eyes, watched the entirety of her display with keen interest.

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	2. Chapter 2

Bryce Cousland had much to plan and a near overwhelming number of things still left to consider.

The teyrn clasped his hands behind his back while staring into the burning hearth intently.

His thoughts quickly shifted from one task to the next, running through a long list of all the necessary preparations needed be made before the march.

Armory stocks, food supplies, and the recompense for the families of dead soldiers.

The teyrn's face remained implacably calm as he calculated the potential damages levied against his household in the aftermath of the battle.

There was no question that men would die.

He mused quietly before the line of thought externalized itself into a question. He turned to Arl Howe pointedly. "I trust that your troops will be here shortly?"

The visibly graying Arl cleared his throat nervously before he spoke. "I expect they will start arriving tonight and we can march tomorrow." Howe shifted in place uncertainly before deciding to bow meekly. "I apologize for the delay my lord. This is entirely my fault."

"No, no," The teyrn interjected as he tore his gaze from the fire. "The appearance of the darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn't it? I only received the call from the King a few days ago myself."

With the tension eased from the conversation, all formality was quickly erased, replaced by the easy flowing nature of conversation between two long-time acquaintances.

Bryce stepped off the raised terrace, moving towards the Arl. "I'll send my eldest off with my men, and you and I will ride tomorrow." He grinned boyishly. "Just like the old days."

Howe laughed. "True, but we both had less _gray_ in our hair then! And we fought Orlesians, not...monsters."

Bryce chuckled. "At least the smell will be the same!"

Avelle made her entrance into the main hall with unhurried steps. She glanced about quickly, sending silent prayers to the Maker in the hopes that Thomas was not present.

Her father caught her approach. "I'm sorry pup, I didn't see you there." Bryce beckoned Avelle to his side as he turned towards the Arl. "Howe, you remember my daughter?"

Howe offered a smile to Avelle, nodding appreciably. "I see she's grown into a lovely young woman. Pleased to see you again my dear."

Avelle smiled politely in return, providing Howe with a respectful curtsy.

The gesture was nearly a reflex, etched through the teyrna's unfailingly strict instruction. It wasn't a secret that the teyrna wanted grandchildren, and her tom-boyishly-dressed daughter was not helping in the matter.

Avelle winced inwardly at the memory of those awkward conversations, but her face remained pleasant as she greeted the Arl. "A pleasure to see you as well, Arl Howe." Avelle managed a careful smile. "Your family..." she began cautiously, "...they are not with you?"

Bryce hid a knowing smile behind a gesture to stroke his beard.

Howe replied, "I'm afraid not. I left them at Amaranthine, far away from the fighting to the south." The Arl leaned forward conversationally. "My son Thomas asked for you! Perhaps I should bring him with me next time!"

Avelle inwardly grimaced, but maintained her pleasant composure. "I would...like that..."

The stilted hesitation of her voice spoke volumes, but the Arl was oblivious.

"Excellent! I'm certain he'll be most pleased to hear it. We'll arrange for a meeting after this unpleasantness with the darkspawn has passed."

Trapped by her own words, she resisted the overwhelming urge to run head-long into the castle's stone-braced walls. Already she began to think of ways to escape the future meeting.

Bryce kindly rescued his daughter, steering the conversation towards another subject. "At any rate pup, I summoned you for a reason. While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

Avelle's eyebrows shot upward. "I...what...?"

"You heard me dear girl. This is no small task I ask of you."

Avelle was startled by the staggering anxiousness that unexpectedly constricted her heart.

Throughout her noble upbringing, she had been fortunate enough to be pardoned of such tasks. Her brother, Fergus, bore the brunt of the family responsibilities.

Suddenly she felt as if she were a small girl again, staring at the imposing threshold of consequential responsibility.

Avelle inwardly chided herself, ashamed that such news would bring about such a pang of nervousness.

With a long intake of breath, she struggled to tame her fluctuating voice. "Yes father...but, you're sure of this?"

The teyrn's eyes softened. "I ask you to take a great responsibility, but I _know_ you're up to the task. Only a token force is remaining here and you must keep peace in the region." He paused briefly before adding, "You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?" He grinned.

Avelle was not comforted by the thought, but kept quiet as she nodded in understanding.

"There is also someone you must meet." The teyrn turned to address the guard by the door. "Please, show Duncan in."

The guard obediently saluted, moving out of the hall. Moments later a dark, silver-armored man was escorted towards them. He was a tall, bearded warrior with strikingly dark features. He strode purposefully into the hall as he made his way towards the teyrn.

Avelle was surprised to see that the man was not only armored, but armed as well. Normally guests were not permitted to carry weapons into the hall due to their close proximity to Ferelden nobility. Her father, however, had given this man special permission to carry arms, an evident sign of trust and respect.

Avelle gawked openly as it dawned on her that the man was none other than a Grey Warden.

Ever since she was a child, she had grown up on stories of their fierce and noble Order. She had often urged nan to tell her once again of how the Grey Wardens, riding atop gryphon's, soared courageously into the ominous surge of darkspawn.

In the darkest of times, they were the world's true heroes.

Here stood one right before her, impressively armored in embossed silver plating, dark, and exuding the wisdom and confidence of a seasoned warrior.

She was simply star-struck.

Duncan inclined his head in a respectful bow. "It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, teyrn Cousland."

"Your lordship!" Howe exclaimed with surprise. "You didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present."

Bryce eyed the Arl curiously. "Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?"

"Of course not..." He began uncertainly, "...but a guest of this..._stature_ demands certain protocol. I am...at a disadvantage!"

Bryce nodded in agreement. "We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true." The teyrn turned to his daughter. "Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?"

Avelle straightened hastily. "Oh...why yes of course! They are the heroes of legend, and an order of great warriors, father." She smiled admiringly at Duncan.

Duncan bowed courteously. "You are too kind, my lady."

Bryce nodded with approval. "Their ranks have defended mankind against the Blight since the first. Without them, none of us would be here." He paused before continuing, "Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south. I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore."

Duncan addressed the teyrn with a nod. "If I might be so bold, I would suggest that your daughter is also an excellent candidate."

His eyes glanced briefly to Avelle before fixing themselves on the teyrn.

Bryce stiffened with alarm while Avelle, equally unprepared, looked to Duncan with surprise.

She was caught off guard by what she saw in the Grey Warden's eyes.

His dark gaze was intent upon her, an unspoken question hung between them. She was uncertain as to what he was asking, but it seemed that he was searching, sensing.

Avelle could only stare back helplessly in an attempt to decipher its meaning.

The contact was swiftly broken as the teyrn stepped between them, shielding his daughter protectively from the Warden's gaze.

He addressed Duncan firmly. "Honor though that might be, this is _my__ daughter_ we're talking about."

Avelle winced with embarrassment, but said nothing.

Arl Howe smiled as he loftily re-butted, "Well old friend...you _did_ say that the Grey Wardens are hero's. Would it be so terrible a thing?"

Bryce frowned. "That may be, but I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle."

Avelle intervened quickly in an attempt to disarm the situation. "Father, I'm no longer a child. I can speak for myself."

She looked to Duncan apologetically. "Ser, truly you do me a great honor. I...I am flattered that you would consider me worthy enough to join your ranks..." She momentarily glanced to her father, who looked half ready to flog her. She continued hastily, "However, ...I do believe my place is here."

The teyrn's relief was evident, as his stiff posture eased under the reassuring words of his daughter.

Bryce stared pointedly at Duncan, reinforcing her intentions by repeating them. "Do you hear that Duncan? My daughter is _not_ interested in becoming a Grey Warden...so unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription—?"

Duncan raised a gauntleted hand amicably. "Have no fear. While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue."

The teyrn gave Duncan a lingering glance before stepping away from between the Warden and his daughter. "Pup, can you ensure Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Of course, father."

"In the meantime, find Fergus, and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me. We'll talk before I leave tomorrow."

Avelle smiled. "This is your subtle way of telling me to leave, I take it?"

Bryce gave his daughter a reproving look. "We must discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lass and do as I ask. We'll talk soon."

She frowned with disappointment, but began to make her way towards the door. Her steps slowed, and her eyes couldn't help but draw themselves to Duncan once more.

He was a Grey Warden. A _real _Grey Warden.

She could no longer contain her excitement, and she stepped to him eagerly. "Ser, if you would be so kind, I would love to speak to you later. You see, I've grown up on tales of the Grey Wardens, and there are so many questions I've longed to ask of them!"

Duncan smiled warmly. "Of course, my lady."

Her father interrupted the exchange. "Off with you dear girl!"

Avelle hurriedly stepped out of the hall, unable to contain the eager smile on her face.

Her mind raced, thinking of all the questions she would ask of Duncan.

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**Author****'****s**** Note**: Sorry, kind of a quiet chapter; had to get the origins dialogue in there. I'm really eager to get into future chapters. I have lots of things planned out that I'm _dying _to get on paper. I promise that the next chapter will have plenty more going on!

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	3. Chapter 3

War. Battle.

It was a common, romantic, misconception that warriors would engage in epic struggles for hours on end.

Storybook tales would speak of how the air would sing with the sound of metal clashing against metal, and how the light would catch the reflection of polished steel swords parrying one another.

Bards would sing and paint impressionable young minds with the beauty of the fight. Seasoned warriors, however, knew that such fanciful notions were laughable.

The traveling bards of Thedas lied about the glory of battle and kept their coin-purse full, while the warriors that knew better kept their memories foggy with the help of a mug of ale.

Melee combat on the field was handled brutally. Skirmishes between warriors were won or lost within a matter of seconds. Battle was swift, ruthless, and violent. In the chaotic, slippery mess of war, it was not about flourish, it was about efficiency.

Ser Gilmore grimly reflected on these truths as he felt himself being thrown to the ground, _again_.

It was clear that his opponent was a seasoned warrior, and _Maker_ was he fast.

The knight could only stare at the sky with confusion, wondering why he could suddenly see it so well.

A deep voice interrupted his thoughts. "Your technique is exceptional, however, I notice your strikes are often hesitant?" Duncan sheathed his sword into a well-worn scabbard, hefting Ser Gilmore to his feet. "There's no need to hold back on my account."

_Hold__ back__?_

Ser Gilmore couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't do you the disservice of a restrained fight Ser!" He chuckled as he straightened himself.

The Warden smiled. "No need for formalities lad, Duncan will do."

Ser Gilmore inclined his head politely. "Very well. Duncan it is."

The knight shambled his way towards one of the castle walls, wincing as he braced a hand against his back.

His eyes looked to Duncan sheepishly. "Quite honestly, I didn't expect you to be...well, so _fast_."

Duncan chuckled. "I may be a Grey Warden, but I'm not quite so grey as the name would imply."

"Oh no! I would never suggest...it's just that I've never sparred with anyone so unexpectedly quick," The knight let out a pained exhale as he leaned against the courtyard wall. "...Lady Avelle fights with similar speed. I would pay money to see you two spar. It would certainly be something to see." The knight chuckled with good humor.

Duncan raised an eyebrow with interest. "Lady Cousland is quick then, I take it?"

The knight nodded and closed his eyes with exhaustion. "Yes, extraordinarily so. However, she's mostly trained for ranged combat. In melee she's still quick, but strong, persistent melee attacks can rattle her. It's something we've been working on in our sparring lessons."

Duncan nodded quietly, as he stashed the knowledge away in the back of his mind.

Ser Gilmore opened his eyes slowly, and looked to the Warden uncertainly.

It was inappropriate to engage in castle gossip, let alone with guests, but Ser Gilmore held on to a piece of information that left him speechless...and hopeful.

It was only by chance that Ser Gilmore had overheard a conversation between two of the castle guards. They spoke of how Duncan had upset the teyrn by suggesting that his daughter would have been a fitting candidate for the Grey Wardens.

Lady Cousland had passed on the offer, but the knight wondered if that had truly been her wish? Perhaps it born out of a daughter's obligation to her father?

Ser Gilmore unconsciously tugged at the edges of his gloves, deep in thought.

The prospect of Lady Avelle joining the Grey Wardens was a scenario he never considered. If however, she _were _to join the Grey Wardens, her title and holdings on the Cousland estate would be forfeit. The implications were tremendous, but for other reasons...

He stirred anxiously. The impossible hope of being together with her seemed infinitely less daunting. The rigid social strata, so fixed and despairingly immovable, would disappear instantly. He would no longer be separated by the tremendous gap of station, instead, they would become life-long comrades as fellow Grey Wardens.

It was a distant hope, but one worth holding on to.

Perhaps then he would pluck the courage to speak to her of things he had always wished to tell her.

Through a rushed breath, the knight suddenly blurted out, "You are interested in recruiting Lady Avelle to the Grey Wardens—?"

The words sounded more like a declaration than a question. His voice was far louder than it should have been, betrayed by his own anxiousness.

Ser Gilmore instantly felt regret, as Duncan looked to him with surprise. The unduly-forward question settled awkwardly between them.

Duncan was taken aback, but only for a moment.

The Warden nodded as he crossed his arms in front of him. "I'm afraid it was not a suggestion the teyrn took to kindly, but yes. I did offer Lady Cousland an opportunity to be tested with the Wardens."

Ser Gilmore lowered his head apologetically. "I...forgive me, that was a terribly forward thing of me to ask. I had heard rumors you see and, well..." The knight pushed himself off the wall before continuing, "Lady Cousland is a fine archer, perhaps the best I've ever known. There would be no doubt that she would make a fine Grey Warden."

"So it may be, but it is not my desire to risk the ill-will of Ferelden's nobility, especially the Cousland's. The Grey Wardens cannot afford to make enemies—not with a Blight stirring to the south."

Ser Gilmore frowned. "Wouldn't it be all the more reason to conscript Grey Wardens?"

Duncan stroked his beard, deciding to weigh his words carefully. "Yes, you are correct. I would not hesitate to conscript if I felt that I must. However, I will not go against the teyrn's wishes if I can help it."

"Yes," The knight's shoulders imperceptibly sunk. "Of course..."

The Grey Warden fixed the young man with the same contemplative stare as he had with Avelle in the hall.

Reading people was a skill he had acquired in his younger, far more dubious years. He learned to harness it to great effect, but any insights gained, he wisely kept to himself.

Duncan gestured towards Ser Gilmore to follow, and they began to walk towards the castle.

"I believe you're still making preparations for the troop's deployment? I won't keep you longer. Let us continue your testing in the morning."

"Of course. I just...ah, I hope my earlier sparring didn't give you a bad impression. Believe me when I say I'm usually far better prepared."

The Warden nodded understandingly, "I have no doubt. However, there are far greater tests of importance that a Grey Warden must endure." Duncan trained his eyes on the knight with an unsettling seriousness. "You must be ready to sacrifice many things."

Automatically, Ser Gilmore replied. "I can, and I will Duncan."

Duncan frowned. The knight's quick response made his warning seem indistinct, weak even.

The Warden's brow furrowed as he reflected on all of the terrible things he had seen, of the many thing's he had lost, and was most keenly made aware of all the things he would never have.

The taint coursing through Duncan's body began to thrum with agitated energy.

_Honor__. __Duty__. __Sacrifice__._

"No, Ser Gilmore." Duncan replied. "Understand that you must be ready to sacrifice _everything_."

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**Author****'****s**** Notes**: Sorry for the delay between updates! It's been unexpectedly busy for the past couple of weeks, but soon I'll get a reprieve!

This chapter came as kind of a surprise to me, particularly since I was aiming to have the Origins story wrapped up by now. However, I can't help but think Duncan would have approached Ser Gilmore in some fashion for testing. Hence, this wild card of a chapter sprung forth. Oh, Ser Gilmore, you love-sick fool—!

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	4. Chapter 4

The day swiftly descended into nightfall. Highever's deep blue sky dispersed to reveal a dark ceiling of stars, obscured occasionally by passing clouds. The evening was unusually cool, even by Ferelden standards.

Avelle's boots scraped nosily as they dragged themselves across cobblestone floors. She gave a slight nod as she passed by an elven servant who moved swiftly to light the torches along the darkened halls.

It had been a long day, with extensive hours spent attending to every detail in preparation of Castle Cousland's transition in leadership. She had met with the heads of every division of castle staff, wrangled in her over-eager hound, spouted words of apology to nan, and of course, bade farewell to her father and brother.

It was a strange sendoff, a mixture of unspoken worry and unusual bursts of levity. Fergus had grinned at Avelle's struggling attempts to wish him goodbye, for all she could manage was a humorous bit of sisterly caution.

_"__Don__'__t__ die__, __you__ mop__-__head__."_

He laughed and ruffled the top of her head, teasingly. The two siblings knew each other well enough to know how deeply her words meant. Worries were never outwardly spoken, and while cloaked in jest, her words bore more weight than any serious declaration ever could.

She had hugged him then, and sent a silent prayer to the Maker.

Avelle stopped inches from the door leading into her quarters, and stared at it uncertainly.

The crossing of the threshold would signal the end of the day and the beginning of tomorrow. There would be a near overwhelming amount of tasks to attend to in the days ahead, and already she is nagged by an unfamiliar anxiousness.

With a sigh, she not so much pushed, as fell, into the door, swinging it wide open. The door rattled shut behind her, and she began to drag herself to the center of the room. Relieved to be in the safety of her chambers, she collapsed with exhaustion onto the soft down of her bed, draping awkwardly across it.

She laid, unmoving, for several minutes until her body began to protest. It was uncomfortable, as the rivets of her armor poked sharply into her sides.

With a groan, she carelessly shed the leather studded armor, throwing it into a disorganized heap upon the floor. With greater care, she propped her bow and quiver against the wall. Finally, with a breathy exhale, her fingertips reached out to pull back the coverlets where she crawled gratefully into the warm confines of her blankets.

Her eyes closed contentedly, as she found refuge in the calming quiet of a dreamless slumber.

* * *

The night stretched on silently, the quiet was only broken by the lilted hoots of the native Coastland owl's calling to one another.

As the castle slept, Howe's armored soldiers made their way towards the barracks, where the sparse remainder of the castle guard took their rest.

Like vipers, they slithered their way through doors and chambers, poising themselves over unknowing prey.

It was dirty work, but the rewards were promised to be spectacular.

In a flash of movement, they struck. The sleeping Cousland soldier's were roughly pulled from their beds, as they found the blades of foreign troops pressed painfully against their throats.

There was confusion, then realization.

Then the screams began.

* * *

The sound of scuffles and muted shouts echoed throughout the halls, stirring Avelle from her sleep. She confusedly sat upright in bed, unsure of what she was hearing. Her brow furrowed as she mistakenly took the angry shouts for drunken, off-duty castle guards, brawling with one another.

The ale had been flowing generously throughout the day, to boost the morale of worry-sick soldiers who faced the daunting task of combating a potential Blight.

Avelle wondered if she should call the head of the castle guard to discipline these men for being obtrusively loud as they were.

She shivered as she emerged from the warm confines of her blankets. With a sigh, she threw her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing slightly, as her bare feet padded along the uncomfortably cold surface of the stone floor. She began to make her way towards the door, and the sounds became increasingly audible.

Without warning, a horrid, gut-wrenching scream cut through the air as its undulating wail forced itself through the crevices of the door, sending Avelle's hand flying to her mouth with shock.

Her heartbeat quickened, as her fingers laced themselves upon the handle of the iron-bark door. With a shaky exhale, she swiftly flung open the door to find the bodies of dead and dying men, fire, swords, and screams.

She found one of the castle guards running towards her with fear and urgency splaying across his features like a horrid mask.

"My lady! The castle is under attack! You mus‒!" the guard let out a wretched gurgle, as he was swiftly downed by the thud of a razor-tipped arrow, piercing the cavity of his chest.

He collapsed bodily onto the stone floor, just short of where she stood.

The floor quickly became saturated with a growing pool of dark red blood.

Avelle let out a startled gasp, stumbling backwards. She was still aware enough to register the distinct clink of armored men moving towards the door.

She trembled fearfully, as the adrenaline pumped fierce and fresh throughout her body. She hurriedly moved to the other end of the bed, ducking behind a bed post, vaguely aware that her armor and bow were hidden in the darkened shadows of the floor.

Two of Howe's soldier's eased themselves through the door, scanning the room for loot and Cousland guards. With a sparkle in their eye, they took in the sight of the young Cousland, and grinned at the tempting state of undress she was found in.

"Well, well! Aren't you a lovely little thing..." one of the soldier's drawled, as his eyes roved immodestly over her body. He cracked a toothy grin before sheathing his sword, "Tell you what little flower, why don't you keep us company for a bit, eh?"

The man's companion quipped behind him with an enthusiastic laugh, "Ooh, yes. Pretty soon we'll be able to tell the boys how we plowed a noble!"

Avelle silently shook her head as the men came closer.

"What's this then? A blushing maid?" The soldier turned to his companion, "Hah! The poor girl won't be able to walk after this!"

Avelle's eardrums began to ring with a high-pitched keening. Her terrified heartbeat thudded loudly against her chest as the men began to walk closer. They stalked around the perimeter of the bed, and were now alarmingly close. She saw hands reaching out to her, and time froze in place.

"Come here, girl!"

Overcome by a panicked surge, Avelle quickly dropped to the floor catching hold of her bow and notched an arrow, fully drawing the cord back to her ear. The maneuver took less time than the sharp intake of breath to register the man's distinct surprise.

The soldier gaped, as he fumbled clumsily for his sword. Avelle loosed the arrow into the man's throat, quickly notching another arrow and sending it flying into the chest of his companion. Both soldier's futilely grasped at the shaft of the lodged arrows, sputtering violently.

They twitched for a few moments longer before they were suddenly still.

With trembling knees, Avelle collapsed to the ground, her fingers wound themselves tightly as they clutched the stave of her bow. She was settled near one of the dead soldiers, and her eyes stared at the tabard decorating their uniforms.

_Howe__'__s__ men__-? __It__ can__'__t__ be__..._

She was suddenly hit by the painful realization that her family was being attacked by the very man they welcomed into their home but hours ago.

_Arl__ Howe__...__oh__ Maker__, __mother__! __Father__!_

Avelle quickly propelled herself upward with a violent surge. Her family would be in grave danger if Howe's men were to find them. Quickly, she donned the leather armor and hastily threw the quiver over her back.

With bow clutched firmly in hand, she ran into the chaos of Castle Cousland.

* * *

Highever's strong, Ferelden-born teyrna was donned in hardened, leather armor, already armed with a bow and quiver. Upon catching sight of her daughter her eyes widened with a mother's relief, and she quickly ran to her. "Oh, thank the Maker! You're still alive!" She wrapped her daughter in a fierce embrace, "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Avelle managed, before quickly glancing about the room, "Maker's breath...what's happening?"

"They must have ambushed us when your brother left with the troops," The teyrna's face suddenly dropped with dawning horror, "Oh no...have you seen your father? He never came to bed!"

Avelle pivoted as she made a start towards the door. "Howe's soldier's are everywhere! We need to find him first!" She began to sprint towards the door, calling over her shoulder, "Quickly!"

* * *

Ser Gilmore paced heatedly in the main hall, "Go! Man the gate! Keep those _bastards _out as long as you can!"

The knight sheathed his sword and wiped the spattered blood away from his brow. His eyes caught sight of movement in the corner of the hall, and his hand swiftly flew to the pommel of his sword. He sighed in relief, as he registered the approach of the teyrna and her daughter. His hands fell away from the hilt, and he quickly ran to meet them. "Your ladyship, my lady-you're both alive! I was certain Howe's men had gotten through."

"Ser Gilmore!" Avelle threw her arms around his torso, her voice hitched with emotion, "Thank the Maker you're still alive!"

Ser Gilmore's posture stiffened at the unexpected contact. His hands tentatively run along the length of her arms soothingly.

The contact was broken all too swiftly, as Avelle stepped out of the cradle of his arms. She glanced uncertainly around the hall, "Have you seen my father?"

Ser Gilmore nodded, glancing nervously towards the gate. "Yes. He was looking for you two. He told us to hold the hall as long as possible. When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates, but that won't keep Howe's men out for long. If you've another way out of the castle, use it—quickly."

Avelle spoke hurriedly,"Ser Gilmore, you and the others can't stay here! Howe's men will kill you for certain when they break through!"

"The gates won't hold on their own. We'll remain here for as long as possible," His eyes glanced briefly to the gates, confirming his fears. The normally sturdy, iron-bark wood had already begun to cave inwards under the relentless assault of the Arl's men. The doors would be breached in a matter of minutes. He quickly turned to the teyrna and Avelle, his speech rushed with urgency. "When I last saw the teyrn, he'd been badly wounded. I urged him not to go, but he was determined to find you. He went towards the kitchen, I believe he thought to find you at the servant's exit in the larder. You will probably find him there."

Eleanor bowed to him appreciatively. "Bless you Ser Gilmore, Maker watch all of you."

The knight offered a salute to the teyrna, before fixing his gaze on Avelle.

In these final moments, even amidst these fearful and chaotic trials, she is _still_ so achingly beautiful. For half a heartbeat, he wished for nothing more than to reach out and gather her in his arms, one last time.

"...my lady, I—"

He leaned forward with arms extended towards her, but the words stubbornly clung to his throat.

Avelle looked to him expectantly, but all Ser Gilmore could manage was a remorseful sigh. He fell back onto his heels as his hands dropped to his sides. He closed his eyes and fervently wished that he were a braver man. "...Maker watch over you."

It was a cowards exit, but what would be the point of professing such things now? Why burden her with such foolish knowledge at a time such as this?

He glanced towards her one more time, and was struck by how she was looking at him.

Any other time he would have dared ask what she was thinking, but now—it was impossible. He lingered only a moment longer before retreating to the gate, throwing his shoulder against the ever-weakening doors.

"Ser Gilmore!" Avelle called out.

He vaguely heard her, but he did not turn. The force of Howe's soldiers continued to pound against the frame of the door, threatening to break through. He re-doubled his efforts and wedged himself firmly against it.

He was a knight, and this was where he would make his final stand.

"Ser Gilmore...I—"

The teyrna's voice quivered with urgency as she called to her daughter, "Avelle, quickly! We must get to your father!"

The young Cousland took a step back, her voice perilously close to breaking, "...thank you."

She quickly made her way towards the larder, the sound of her footsteps echoed, as they ran out of the hall and out of his life, forever.

* * *

Avelle and the teyrna ran determinedly towards the larder. They pierced the Arl's obstructing men with ruthless efficiency by way of steel-tipped arrows. Upon reaching the door, they crossed the threshold to the larder warily.

It was dark, and there were signs of a struggle as they inspected the toppled barrels. Spilled flour powdered the room in an ominous trail of white, as smears of blood were visible, dragged across the surface of the floor.

Bryce's eyes lit up with relief upon the sight of his wife and daughter both—_alive_. The sound of his voice quickly drew their heads towards a shadowed corner of the room. "There...you both are. I was...wondering, when you would get here..."

He collapsed forward, clutching his side weakly. The once bright regalia of Highever's teyrn was now stained in a massive swath of blood.

"Bryce!" Eleanor moved quickly to her husband's side. "Maker's blood what's happening? You're bleeding!"

"Howe's men, found me first. Almost...did me in right there." He groaned as he sat himself upright. "He can't get away with this! The King will-!"

Bryce choked on the half-formed words, doubling over in pain.

"Bryce! We must get you out of here."

The teyrn's eyes opened weakly. "I...won't survive the standing, I think."

Avelle fell to the ground next to him, her hands clutched at his shoulder. "Father, no! That's not true, you'll be fine!"

"My girl..." Bryce managed a small, pained smile. "...if only will can make it so."

"Father...don't speak like that!"

The teyrn's voice took on a renewed strength, "Someone..._must_ reach Fergus. Tell him what has happened."

Eleanor clutched at his arm, attempting to shake sense into her husband. "Bryce no! The servant's passage is right here. We can flee together, find you healing magic!"

Bryce furrowed his brow, as a pained spasm, cracked outward from his side. He gritted his teeth in agony. "The castle is surrounded...I cannot make it."

Avelle opened her mouth to protest, but Duncan's voice intervened, as he manifested behind them. "I'm afraid the teyrn is correct. Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult..."

The Warden dropped to one knee, next to the wounded teyrn.

Duncan was wholly stained in blood, but seemed oblivious to the fact. With a fluid movement he sheathed his sword, fixing it into the scabbard at his back.

Eleanor's eyes lit up with recognition. "You are...Duncan then? The Grey Warden?"

Duncan nodded. "Yes, your ladyship. The teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."

"My daughter helped me get here—Maker be praised."

The Warden looked to Avelle knowingly. "I am not surprised."

"Duncan—" Bryce shifted to one arm, his voice strained, "...you are under no obligation to me, but I _beg_ you, take my wife and daughter to safety—"

The words hung somberly in the air. The last wishes of a dying man.

The Warden nodded slowly, before addressing the teyrn firmly. "I will your lordship...but I fear I must ask for something in return."

Avelle shot Duncan an incredulous look. "You can't be serious!"

Bryce silenced his daughter with a wave of his hand. "Anything!"

Duncan fixed the teyrn with a level gaze. "What is happening here pale's in comparison to the evil now loose in this world. I came to your castle seeking a recruit—the darkspawn threat _demands_ that I leave with one."

The teyrn's brow furrowed, the Warden's intentions were unmistakable.

Duncan continued, "I will take the teyrna and daughter to Ostagar, to tell Fergus and the King what happened," He fixed his eyes on Avelle with a determined intent, "Then your daughter joins the Grey Wardens."

Avelle gaped, her voice impeded by stunned disbelief.

The teyrn's eyes closed, and was silent for a few moments. With a suppressed quiver in his voice, he looked to Duncan. "So long as justice comes to Howe...I agree."

Eleanor looked to her husband with apprehension, "Bryce...are you sure?"

"Our daughter will _not_ die of Howe's treachery! She will live—" Bryce reached his hand to his daughter, which she clasped with her own. "...and make her mark on the world."

Avelle looked to her father with wide, despairing eyes. "Father...don't speak like that. You're strong! You always have been..." A lump formed in her throat.

As a child, she would always run to her father when anything frightened her. Whether it be darkness, bugs, nightmares, or even the torments of her older brother. He would pick her up into his arms and hug her reassuringly with the promise that he would always be there to protect her.

The teyrna found her voice at last, her fingers touched gently upon her daughter's shoulder. "Darling, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."

Avelle looked to her father and mother pleadingly. "No...you can't."

"Eleanor..." Bryce whispered.

"Hush Bryce...I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you!"

Bryce moved to his wife, his head resting weakly against her arm. "I'm...so sorry it's come to this, my love-"

Eleanor took her husband in her arms, her face cradled into him. "We had a good life, and did all we could," The teyrna looked to her daughter with a sad gaze. "It's up to our children now."

The teyrn suppressed a groan of pain, as he nodded somberly. "Go pup—warn your brother. Know that we love you both...you do us proud."

Avelle felt a burning panic rise in her throat, she shouted to them angrily. "Stop speaking like the dead! We can _still_ get out together!"

Her outburst was met with a sorrowful silence, and her parents exchanged quiet, but meaningful glances.

"My...my dear girl," Bryce appealed to Duncan, nodding to him silently. The teyrn took in the face of his daughter one last time, and even though he knew she was already a grown, young woman, he couldn't help but see her as the little girl, weaving between his legs and laughing, "...it is not your place to die here."

The Warden leaned in to take hold of her arm, but Avelle angrily shook him off, fixing him with a cold stare. "I'm _not _leaving."

Duncan fell back onto his heels and stood, his voice serious, "I'm afraid you have little choice in the matter."

In the distance, the shouts of angry soldier's could be heard, the sound of steel swords reverberated loudly throughout the halls. For a heart-stilling moment, they heard the unmistakable crash of the large, gated doors, collapsing to the ground.

"They've broken through the gates, we must go—now!" Duncan roughly pulled Avelle to her feet, forcing her in front of him.

"No! I can't leave them! No—_STOP_!"

Avelle furiously attempted to push past him, but he was far stronger, and he pulled her tightly to prevent her from gaining any significant leverage to disengage away from him.

Her protests were drowned as the doors of the servants quarters cracked loudly, as steel axes splintered the wood into pieces. Duncan half-carried, half-dragged Avelle through the passageway with startling quickness.

Nearing the exit, he threw his shoulder into the door. As it swung open, the burst of cool night air hit their faces. Upon crossing the threshold, the sound of Howe's men victoriously echoed, as they cried out the location of the of the elder Cousland's.

It was through that terrible sound that Avelle truly knew despair.

_No__..._

Avelle tightly clutched her chest, as she let out a miserable cry, doubling over with grief. Duncan was startled by the sudden shift in weight, as he felt her collapsing to the ground.

Avelle dropped to her hands and knees, her fingers braced themselves upon the cool, wet earth.

She vaguely heard Duncan urging her to stand, but her vision blurred, and the darkened outline of trees were suddenly cloaked by a blanket of impenetrable darkness.

* * *

Avelle blinked, but saw nothing. Her fingertips rubbed the edges of her eyes, and her vision slowly re-focused, but she was uncertain of what she was seeing. It was dark, yet the dark canopy of tree branches could be seen above her, vaguely lit in an orange glow. It was brighter on the periphery of her vision, and she pushed herself upright to get a better look.

It was then that she realized they were on the southern slope of the mountainside overlooking the town of Highever.

She spotted Duncan, gazing intently at the scene before him.

He turned to Avelle upon hearing her stir, "Lady Cousland..." he made his way to her side, kneeling before her, "How are you feeling?"

Wordlessly, Avelle stood and moved past him.

Duncan trained his eyes on the young Cousland, as she resumed his former position.

Avelle could only stare numbly at the smoke-filled skies of Castle Cousland. It was a strange and surreal sight, the flames were bright, even from their spot in the remote distance. The sound of collapsing wooden frames snapped like thunder, as one of the tower roofs came crashing down in a burning heap, the dark smoke bloomed upwards in its wake.

Her adrenaline had cooled, only to be replaced by a dense and sorrowful pull. Guilt-filled tears welled in her eyes, and her throat constricted tightly at the realization of everything she'd lost.

Caught in a flood of overbearing emptiness, Avelle cradled her face into her hands as disorganized pangs of grief assaulted her. Her efforts to hold back tears collapsed, as wet rivers crested through her fingers. Her body became wracked in a hopeless grief, as she struggled to gasp air in between fits of shuddering breath. She fell to her knees and sobbed helplessly.

For a dizzying moment, she thought she would never be able to breathe again.

Some time had passed, and she was suddenly aware of the pair of dark eyes upon her, knowing full well how pitiable she must look.

She was not behaving as a Cousland ought. The Cousland's were a strong and proud family. This display of weakness would not do.

It was with that consciousness did she attempt to wrangle in her runaway emotions. She struggled to say something to him, but all that came out was a strangled, mewling noise. Quickly she drew her fist against her mouth, pressing hard.

"It's alright." Duncan spoke calmly.

Avelle hurriedly banished the wetness from her face with a stroke of a gloved hand. She picked herself off the moss-covered ground, standing shakily.

Duncan moved to her side, placing a bracing hand at the small of her back, the other hand clasped with her own as he steadied her to her feet.

Duncan slowly released her, stealing a glance behind them, looking for signs of a pursuit. "Howe's men will be scouring these woods once they find you missing from the castle. We must move, and quickly." He urged.

Avelle nodded silently, her eyes were distant and unfocused.

Duncan gazed sympathetically at the young Cousland before his voice gently prompted, "Let us make our way then."

Cloaked in a blanket of darkness, they retreated into the dark pine of the Coastland forest, as Highever continued to burn into the night.

* * *

**Author****'****s**** Notes**: You know, after playing through all of the Origins - I can't help but feel that the Human Noble is the one origin where it feels like you're _not _being saved by Duncan.

Actually, it comes off as rather...opportunistic? In the midst of such a deeply personal, and tragic situation, he basically forces your father to accept his terms before agreeing to take you to safety. It was a little jarring to see, since I played the noble origin after most of the others; but that's what made it so intriguing. It adds another layer of complexity on what it truly means to be a Grey Warden.

Anyway - a BIG thank you to all of my reviewer's! You have no idea how gleeful I get when I see comments from those reading the story. You really are the inspiration that drives me to write more!

In our next chapter, we delve into the heart of the story. Duncan and Avelle must make the perilous journey to Ostagar. Mind-numbing boredom, freezing cold, and terrifying dangers await. What more could you ask for?

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	5. Chapter 5

Avelle stumbled clumsily over a set of gnarled roots, one of the many that weaved intricately throughout the vast stretches of the Coastland forest.

Her body pitched forward, nearly tumbling into the moist patches of forest overgrowth. Only by a strange twisting of her body, and the startled shift of her legs beneath her, did she manage to regain her balance.

Halfway between relief and exhaustion, Avelle sighed heavily as she leaned against the offending tree, bracing a gloved hand against the patch-worked colors of the rough bark.

Since they had left the castle they had not stopped once to rest. Though neither Duncan nor Avelle spoke to one another since their escape, there was a pervading anxiousness that filled the spaces between them. Howe's soldier's were undoubtedly combing through the stretches of forested countryside in search of them.

Avelle's eyes traveled upward as she took in the colors of the sky from underneath a canopy of forest leaves and branches. Night blue, with hints of orange teasing the edges of the horizon. The cacophony of colors cast a surreal halo of soft light that held Ferelden between a world of deep night, and raw early morning.

She rested her forehead against the leather texture of her glove, leaning contentedly against the tree. Her legs were anchored stubbornly with exhaustion, and her eyes felt heavy. It was all that she could do to ward away the veil of sleep, for the Fade whispered sweetly behind her weighted eyelids.

"Lady Cousland?" Duncan called to her from up ahead in the distance.

Avelle instantly jerked her head upward to the sound of his voice, staring after him groggily.

Duncan noticed she had fallen back a distance, and turned about to make his way towards her.

The Warden was inclined to urge her onward, but one glance dispelled the notion quickly.

Avelle's eye's held a fatigue that added years to her, once, vibrant features. She seemed gray, older, uncertain - as if the world had turned on its head so quickly that she floated untethered to the realities of current time.

He watched her for a few moments longer before looking about the forest clearing. His gaze studied the surroundings carefully, but all was quiet.

Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, he swept at the ground with his feet, as he began to shift away the carpet of leaves that littered the forest ground.

"Let us take our rest here." He spoke, as he lowered what little amount of provisions they were able to escape with.

It was fortunate enough that the attack had happened scarcely after Duncan's arrival, for the Warden often traveled, and so journeyed at least lightly provisioned.

Avelle wordlessly scraped away the leaves that collected at the base of one of the nearby trees and settled against it.

Duncan lowered himself to one knee as he began to pool together a small basin of branches to serve as kindling for a much needed camp fire.

The cool, Ferelden air suffused itself throughout the forest, and plumes of white frost puffed with every exhale of breath made from the pair.

He spared a quick glance to Avelle before striking at the flint. "You haven't spoken since we left the Castle," His voice was quiet, acclimating itself well to the hushed stillness of the early morning. "Are you—?"

"I have no words for you." Avelle cut him off sharply.

Duncan didn't seem surprised by the venom in her voice. In fact, he didn't look up from his task at all. He set the flint and tinder against one another and struck them together expertly, and soon began to nurse a burgeoning flame.

"I understand." He conceded with an imperceptible nod.

The Warden tossed a few more bits of kindling into the fire, saying nothing.

The yawning silence that followed, stretched on. It was clear that he would not push the subject further.

Avelle was taken aback. She had expected, even _relished_, the idea of a confrontation with the Warden. Perhaps she had hoped that he would offer words of apology for the abrupt hand he had played in recruiting her into the Grey Wardens? She found herself disappointed to find that Duncan would acquiesce so quickly, and without further question.

The manner in which he deflected her anger robbed her of the chance to release the pent up frustration and lamentation she felt towards him and her situation.

Had he done it on purpose?

Avelle didn't bother to hide the resentment that crept into her voice, as she broke the silence. "You understand? _You_?" She quickly pushed herself to stand. "My home is burning, my family―betrayed and murdered, and you _understand_? All you could think about was how you could recruit!" She spat out the words again with contempt. "To _recruit_!"

Duncan watched her intently, but said nothing.

Avelle paced with agitation within the confined edges of the makeshift camp. "You pried the promise of a new recruit from the words of a desperate and dying man," She rounded on him, "My father! How should I feel about that? I thought the Grey Wardens were an order who―!"

"Who do what is necessary." Duncan finished firmly.

He dusted off his hands as he stood up, his height dwarfing her own. "Understand, that I don't regret my decision to recruit you to the Wardens, and I will make no apologies for what I did." Duncan took a few steps towards her, to which Avelle immediately matched in retreat. He looked at her uncertainly before he allowed his voice to soften, "I will, however, offer my sincerest condolences for the circumstances that surrounded it."

"Liar." Avelle snorted derisively.

Duncan looked disappointed, giving Avelle a chiding look. "I never would have wished ill on your family, but I understand your feelings towards me now." He paused before continuing, "More than you know."

She quickly waved him silent. Duncan looked on quietly, but respectfully complied. She shook her head wordlessly before turning away from him. The young Cousland cursed inwardly as a veil of angry tears began to gloss over her eyes.

Why was she crying?

She didn't understand, and the confusion made her angrier. She steeled herself against the despairing tide that pooled threateningly against her eye lids, and blinked them away quickly. A few tendrils managed to cascade down her cheek, and she brushed them away hurriedly.

She walked a few paces away from the fire, and she settled herself awkwardly against the tree, taking measured care not to look at Duncan.

Though she could not see him, she could hear Duncan moving through the leaves, as he settled himself down to rest.

Her eyes closed, and her body shivered against the cold, Ferelden air.

Exhaustion quickly swept her away into the Fade.

* * *

**Author****'****s**** Notes**: What the-HOW is it the end of April already? Sorry for the huge delay in updates - I've been absurdly busy over the past few weeks. But know that I am still writing! *heart* Duncan. Going to try to squeeze more writing time and get more updates in. Cheers! :)


	6. Chapter 6

It was only hours ago that Avelle felt safe and secure in her place with the world.

Now even her dreams haunted her.

The young Cousland stirred uneasily, as she walked through the Fade's undaunted cruelty.

Highever's cobblestone streets were choked with heavy smoke. Avelle coughed violently and made her way through the burning castle.

Alleys and doorways were filled with the bodies of the dead and the dying, the stench of decay and burned flesh was overpowering. Women and children screamed, while Howe's men whooped with sardonic laughter.

She was suddenly transported to the larder, where her mother and father lay dead. Their bodies were splayed gruesomely upon the floor, cut down, and nearly unrecognizable.

Avelle let out a terrible scream and ran to them, dropping to her knees in grief. Her trembling fingertips reached out to them, brushing lightly against the contours of their faces.

Maker's Breath, they were still warm.

Avelle let out a startled gasp as she awoke. Her heartbeat lurched uncomfortably in her chest, as she spun about in confusion. She saw nothing other than the deep stretches of evergreen forest, and the sound of the river larks as they sang their morning greetings to one another.

_This __was__ not__ Highever__._

It was mid-morning, and the mist clung unhurriedly in the air.

The tree she had cradled herself against was cool and damp. The rough, tactile feeling of the bark grounded her back to reality, and she could feel the rustling of the leaves stir beneath her as she shifted in place.

Avelle pushed herself upright and winced. Her neck ached _terribly_.

How long had she been asleep?

As she stood, the cloak that had covered her fell to the ground in a heavy heap. Habitually she found herself reaching down to retrieve it from the damp forest ground, and pooled it against her chest.

She paused.

Avelle stared at the bundle in her arms. The cloak was light gray, heavy but not burdensome, with the image of a griffon emblazoned on the fabric - weather-worn, but otherwise proud.

_Duncan__?_

Avelle looked about the camp uncertainly. The fire had died down to a pool of warm embers, and their provisions were spread out along the ground as if counted.

Duncan's bloodied, silverite, armor was laid out at the base of one of the trees.

The Warden was missing.

Avelle folded the cloak neatly, placing it alongside the provisions before stepping lightly around the fire. She let out a pained exhale with each step.

The adrenaline had shielded her aches from the previous night, but now her body screamed in protest against her every movement.

She moved slowly out of the camp, stepping carefully across the overhang of rocks as the hill sloped downward.

"Duncan...?" Avelle tested her voice against the openness of the forest surrounding her.

She was met with silence.

The morning mist began to disappear, while the sun steadily moved upwards in the sky.

She continued her tentative steps down the embankment, pushing her screaming legs along.

Agony stretched time, and after what felt like an eternity, she was beckoned by the faint sound of water cascading through the hills.

Avelle pushed herself along and met a most welcome sight, a river.

It was a quaint and small river, but as Avelle chewed at the dry grit in her mouth - she found it to be the most blessed thing she had ever seen.

She stepped to it quickly, and pooled her hands against the cold current as it streamed pleasantly between her fingers. She cupped her hands together and raised the water to her lips, drinking gratefully. After a few more handfuls of water, she tilted her head back and sighed appreciatively.

She looked about again for Duncan, but it was difficult to see any length of distance against the heavy brush that surrounded her.

Perhaps he had found the same river further uphill?

Avelle's hair was matted against her face, and for the first time she was aware of the blood that caked uncomfortably along her hands and legs. The leather armor she wore was also splattered with blood. She began to weave her fingers through her hair to untangle the mess. As she combed her hair, her fingers caught hold of random bits of debris. She looked at it inspectively, and her stomach lurched.

_Flesh...pieces?_

The young Cousland's body shivered with disgust, and she wanted nothing more than to plunge into the water and wash _everything _away.

She tugged at her boots, and reminded herself to ignore the dried blood that flaked off her armor.

More _pieces _fell.

With an increased fervor, she began to unlace the leather cuirass that hugged tightly to her chest. With some effort, she managed to divest herself of it, and pulled it over her head. She slipped the leather skirt down her legs, and nudged it against her belongings.

She shivered in the air, for she was with nothing but her linen small-clothes.

Avelle arranged her armor carefully at the side of the river, careful not to get the leather wet.

Satisfied with their placement, she turned about and stepped into the current.

The feel of the river-smoothed stones beneath her feet was welcoming, but the shock of the ice cold water was not.

_Maker__'__s__ breath__ it__'__s __freezing__!_

She stood there for a few moments, allowing the river to stream across her ankles, as she tried to acclimate to the chill of the water. She pooled up her courage, and let out a deep exhale as she forced herself to wade deeper into the river. The water was ice, and she let out a sharp yelp. Her body shivered involuntarily against the current.

Somehow she managed to wade to the deepest section of the river, where the water rose just below her chest. The current was stronger here, but it felt good. She allowed her knees to buckle, and began to rinse.

The blood, the grit, the _pieces_, were all washed away with the cathartic flowing of the river. She dipped her head back, and began to wash her hair.

Her fingers weaved themselves along her scalp, as they worked through the tangles.

She let her hands drop to her sides. The wisps of her hair danced along the surface of the water, floating gently against her face.

She closed her eyes, and allowed the captured moment of serenity to wash over her.

* * *

Duncan heard the young Cousland's yelp from further upstream, and was immediately on alert.

He cursed inwardly and drew his sword.

_Duncan__ you __fool__!_

He had allowed complacency to overtake him, and dismissed the possibility that Howe's men would have persisted so far into the forest.

It was a foolish oversight, and suddenly he was reminded of the promise he had made to the teyrn.

He could not break a dying man's wishes.

If there were several men, he could overtake them if they were caught by surprise.

He fell back into a practiced rogue step, and quickly, silently, moved down the river.

* * *

Avelle made her way back to the camp, refreshed, and more importantly - _clean_. As she crested the hill, she was surprised to find that Duncan had returned.

She nearly did a double-take. Duncan was not outfitted with the silverite, Grey Warden armor of their first few encounter. Rather, he wore foreign, thin, black leather armor. Buckles and straps were weaved intricately across his chest and legs, making him appear far more dubious than an upstanding Grey Warden Commander.

Momentarily she wondered what he could have been before committing himself to the Grey.

He looked up briefly before quickly averting his gaze. Instead, Duncan diverted his attention towards rekindling the camp fire. "Ah, so you've returned?"

"And you as well." Avelle spoke uncertainly, as she walked up the embankment.

Duncan was acting strangely. His movements were unusually stilted, and he took measured care not to look at her.

The Warden cleared his throat. "I was concerned that you may have been captured by Howe's men," Duncan gestured to the bow that lay propped against one of the nearby trees. "You didn't take a weapon before you left," He admonished. "Always carry it with you."

The thought didn't even occur to her.

"Oh." She said simply, and her face burned with embarrassment. "Yes, of course, " she spoke quietly. "I'll be more careful next time."

Duncan nodded before making his way towards the blood-stained armor he had left behind. He sat down on one of the nearby logs and began to scour the silverite surface.

Avelle crouched by the fire and warmed her hands. Idly, her eyes wandered to the unraveled provisions, and to the cloak she had neatly folded before she left.

Duncan had taken care to lend Avelle his cloak, even after she had so fiercely condemned him. Her eyes traveled to Duncan, watching him quietly.

She had been so caught up in her own loss that she did not care to see that Duncan had, by all accounts, saved her life.

The Warden had no obligation to stay with the teryn, but he did. He shed blood, and even killed men.

Without Duncan, she may never have had the chance to say her goodbyes to her father and mother. Those precious last words.

She shivered and rubbed her arms, as a wash of shame engulfed her. She stared sullenly at the fire.

"Are you alright?" Duncan spoke, as he looked up from his task.

Avelle wrapped her arms around herself. "No." She replied.

"No?" Duncan echoed with concern.

She rocked back on her heels and stood up slowly. "I'm...not sure how to say this. I just...I just...wanted to apologize." She paused and looked away from Duncan. "I shouldn't have been so callous towards you. You saved my life, and you protected my father when he...when...he..." She reluctantly caught his gaze, and a lump formed in her throat. "Forgive me, It's difficult for me to speak!" She cleared her throat and continued. "I'm...grateful for everything you've done. I will honor my father's wishes and fulfill my obligation to join the Grey Wardens, if you would still have me."

Duncan watched her quietly. She reminded him of Alistair when apologizing; stilted, awkward, but entirely sincere.

He smiled and raised a hand calmly. "There's no need for apologies. And yes, the Grey Wardens _need _you. Right now, we need to look to the days ahead," His voice sharpened. "There's little time to waste."

Avelle looked to Duncan with concern. "What shall we do?"

"We'll restock our provisions and make our way south."

"South?" Avelle questioned.

Duncan's lips were set in a grim line as he spoke. "To Ostagar."

* * *

**Author****'****s ****Note****:** Mmmm, nothing like black, leather-clad Duncan *fangirl drool* Ah-wha? ...where was I? Um, anyway - hope you guys liked this chapter!


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